


got one thing in common (it's this tongue of mine)

by boxerzayn



Category: One Direction (Band), Radio 1 RPF
Genre: Angst, M/M, it's cute until the thing happens, sad short and terrible
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-11
Updated: 2013-11-11
Packaged: 2018-01-01 05:19:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 864
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1040809
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/boxerzayn/pseuds/boxerzayn
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>as the front of the green honda turnes nick's body into a red canvas he thinks about harry's jaw and his nose. before nick's bones break like twigs he wishes that the angles and laws of harrys face do not crack with the image of them.</p>
            </blockquote>





	got one thing in common (it's this tongue of mine)

**Author's Note:**

> credit to matt healy for the title and the inspiration to the poetry this was based on and im sorry

 

 

 

> _i’m thinking i would like to dance in the rain with this person. i would like to lie next to him in the dark and watch him breathe and watch him sleep and wonder what he’s dreaming about and not get an inferiority complex if the dreams aren’t about me._

 

_nick & norah’s infinite playlist_

 

\--

 

 

I. it’s autumn in holmes chapel. the leaves look like they’re fresh out of some oven, burnt-brown. nick looks at harry sucking on the cigarette his red mouth doesn’t suit. he laughs, at how naive harry is to think smoking is beautiful. 

 

the white sky seems to blush pink in spots at the mere sight of the younger boy, as if it finds his flesh wound mouth obscene. 

his cheeks are blushing in the cold air.  “‘s so cold out,” harry says, as to blame it off. they finish their cigarettes and go inside. 

 

nick loves harry pale and nude in his quiet bed, orange light colouring strands of his hair like glowing sparks. he loves him buckled up in black whool coats and shirts made of knots and fur. (layer after layer, like the way you get to know him.) 

 

they sit by harry’s mother’s fireplace and warm their hands next to the flames. thighs and toes touching. an elbow here and there, sometimes even a bright cheek. anne doesn’t know. (it’s all good.)

 

when harry sings it souds like oil catching fire, is all bones and blood and salt and chili chocolate.  “so bloody beautiful, that is,” nick says into harry’s hair. “you’re such a talent.”

“s’from my mother and father,” harry says, smiling lips and eyes and skin. “no-” nick breathes, “-you’re not made of them. you’re made of november mornings.”

 

harry laughs at that but whispers “m’in love with you,” and it’s all good.

 

nick never tries to be poetic, or nostalgic, or pretentious. but when he hasn’t seen harry for days he scribbles soft things like _“i'm sorry for thinking it's a good thing you smoke. i worry there might not be any clouds on the sky if you stop breathing them out_."

 

if it's been weeks he gets angry and rings harry up to spit "you're in my veins, you fuck."

 

it's mostly tender though, their love. nick knows that tender and breakable go hand in hand, and it's all good.

 

 

II. nick steps onto the rainy road with quick steps, but then everything happens slow, as if under water. he does not choose the scenes printed on the insides of his eyes these last seconds. there are a lot of things happening, in a way that they only do when you're staring death in the eye like this. you notice all these _things_.

the car is forest coloured. he is screaming. his right shoelace is undone. 

 

he is out of breath, and the imagined water starts to fill up his lungs.

 

maybe it doesn't matter if you die drowning or in a car accident or if you die slowly or quickly. you're always going to be out of fucking breath and out of fucking moments. and the water is gushing in and your lungs are burning and---

 if these are his last thoughts before everything goes dark it feels okay that he's thinking about water. 

 

allthough a little sad, that he hasn't got anyone to think about- (oh, but he has.)

 

then, as the front of the green honda turnes nick's body into a red canvas he thinks about harry's jaw and his nose. before nick's bones break like twigs he wishes that the angles and laws of harrys face do not crack with the image of them.

 

(but nothing happens like that, right? the calculated mass and numbers of harrys face-structure can't physscially hurt because the thought of it gets crushed along with nicks's body?)

so this is him, drowning. dying. what happens with all his love? his red love, colouring the blood in his body and gluing his two lungs together?

(the answer is that nothing happens. it all floats out on the rainy november grey pavement.)

 

 

III. harry isn't the one who finds him, ofcourse. it isn't until hours later he gets to see the corpse. when nick's body is all sorts of lilacs and greens-- fairy tale colours that should have nothing to do with this slap-in-the-face reality. he should look more grey and less real. he no longer smells of smoke and coffee. harry refuses to think about the way he'll have to start some new addiction nick had nothing to do with. painting, maybe. maybe it won't be hard to stop smoking because he won't be throwing a thought at it, blinded. maybe he'll need it more than ever, like a cramped attempt at white-knuckled grabbing hold of life. it seems terrible, doesn't it, (but isn't everything about death terrible anyways) to be thinking about this now, shouldn't he be screaming-

 

but then it comes, the horrible pain. it feels like he's being crashed towards a window, glass splinters cutting through the skin of his cheek. 

he's grasping for his jaw and nose and this is it, this is the cracking of hard-smooth bones nick wished away.


End file.
